two hours or so earlier, david, perceiving some assuagement in the storm, and his host having offered to go at once to the doctor and the schoolmaster, had taken his mare, and mounted to go home. he met with no impediment now except the depth of the snow, which made it so hard for the mare to get along that, full of anxiety about his children, he found the distance a weary one to traverse.

when at length he reached the knowe, no one was there to welcome him. he saw, however, by the fire and the food, that marion was not long gone. he put up the gray, clothed her and fed her, drank some milk, caught up a quarter of cakes, and started for the hill.

the snow was not falling so thickly now, but it had already almost obliterated the footprints of his wife. still he could distinguish them in places, and with some difficulty succeeded in following their track until it was clear which route she had taken. they indicated the easier, though longer way—not that by the earth-house, and the father and daughter passed without seeing each other. when kirsty got to the farm, her father was following her mother up the hill.

when david reached the hillfauld, the name he always gave steenie’s house, he found the door open, and walked in. his wife did not hear him, for his iron-shod shoes were balled with snow. she was standing over the body of phemy, looking down on the white sleep with a solemn, motherly, tearless face. she turned as he drew near, and the pair, like the lovers they were, fell each in the other’s arms. marion was the first to speak.

‘eh dauvid! god be praised i hae yersel!’

‘is the puir thing gane?’ asked her husband in an awe-hushed tone, looking down on the maid that was not dead but sleeping.

‘i doobt there’s no doobt aboot that,’ answered marion. ‘steenie, i was jist thinkin, wud be sair disappintit to learn ’at there was. eh, the faith o’ that laddie! h’aven to him’s sic a rale place, and sic a hantle better nor this warl’, ’at he wad not only fain be there himsel, but wad hae phemy there—ay, gien it war ever sae lang afore himsel! ye see he kens naething aboot sin and the saicrifeece, and he disna un’erstan ’at phemy was aye a gey wull kin’ o’ a lassie!’

‘maybe the bonny man, as steenie ca’s him,’ returned david, ‘may hae as muckle compassion for the puir thing i’ the hert o’ ’im as steenie himsel!’

‘ow ay! whatfor no! but what can the bonny man himsel du, a’ bein sattlet?’

‘dinna leemit the almichty, wuman—and that i’ the verra moment whan he’s been to hiz—i wunna say mair gracious nor ord’nar, for that cudna be—but whan he’s latten us see a bit plainer nor common that he is gracious! the lord o’ mercy ’ill manage to luik efter the lammie he made, ae w’y or ither, there as here. ye daurna say he didna du his best for her here, and wull he no du his best for her there as weel?’

‘doobtless, dauvid! but ye fricht me! it souns jist rank papistry—naither mair nor less! what can he du? he canna dee again for ane ’at wudna turn til ’im i’ this life! the thing’s no to be thoucht!’

‘hoo ken ye that, wuman? ye hae jist thoucht it yersel! gien i was you, i wudna daur to say what he cudna du! i’ the meantime, what he maks me able to houp, i’m no gaein to fling frae me!’

david was a true man: he could not believe a thing with one half of his mind, and care nothing about it with the other. he, like his steenie, believed in the bonny man about in the world, not in the mere image of him standing in the precious shrine of the new testament.

after a brief silence—

‘whaur’s kirsty and steenie?’ he said.

‘the lord kens; i dinna.’

‘they’ll be safe eneuch.’

‘it’s no likly.’

‘it’s sartin,’ said david.

and therewith, by the side of the dead, he imparted to his wife the thoughts that drove misery from his heart as he sat on his mare in the storm with the reins on her neck, nor knew whither she went.

‘ay, ay,’ returned his wife after a pause, ‘ye’re unco richt, dauvid, as aye ye are! and i’m jist conscience-stricken to think ’at a’ my life lang i hae been ready to murn ower the sorrow i’ my hert, never thinkin o’ the glaidness i’ god’s! what call hed i to greit ower steenie, whan god maun hae been aye sair pleased wi’ him! what sense is there in lamentation sae lang’s god’s eident settin richt a’! his hert’s the safity o’ oors. and eh, glaid sure he maun be, wi sic a lot o’ his bairns at hame aboot him!’

‘ay,’ returned david with a sigh, thinking of his old comrade and the son he had left behind him, ‘but there’s the prodigal anes!’

‘thank god, we hae nae prodigal!’

‘aye, thank him!’ rejoined david; ‘but he has prodigals that trouble him sair, and we maun see til’t ’at we binna thankless auld prodigals oorsels!’

again followed a brief silence.

‘eh, but isna it strange?’ said marion. ‘here’s you and me stanin murnin ower anither man’s bairn, and naewise kennin what’s come o’ oor ain twa!—dauvid, what can hae come o’ steenie and kirsty?’

‘the wull o’ god’s what’s come o’ them; and god haud me i’ the grace o’ wussin naething ither nor that same!’

‘haud to that, dauvid, and haud me till’t: we kenna what’s comin!’

‘the wull o’ god’s comin,’ insisted david. ‘but eh,’ he added, ‘i’m concernt for puir maister craig!’

‘weel, lat’s awa hame and see whether the twa bena there afore ’s!—eh, but the sicht o’ the bonny corp maun hae gien steenie a sair hert! i wudna won’er gien he never wan ower ’t i’ this life!’

‘but what’ll we du aboot it or we gang? it’s the storm may come on again waur nor ever, and mak it impossible to beery her for a month!’

‘we cudna carry her hame atween’s, dauvid—think ye?’

‘na, na; it’s no as gien it was hersel! and cauld’s a fine keeper—better nor a’ the embalmin o’ the egyptians! only i’m fain to haud steenie ohn seen her again!’

‘weel, lat’s hap her i’ the bonny white snaw!’ said marion. ‘she’ll keep there as lang as the snaw keeps, and naething ’ill disturb her till the time comes to lay her awa!’

‘that’s weel thoucht o’!’ answered david. ‘eh, wuman, but it’s a bonny beerial compared wi’ sic as i hae aften gien comrade and foe alike!’

they went out and chose a spot close by the house where the snow lay deep. there they made a hollow, and pressed the bottom of it down hard. then they carried out and laid in it the death-frozen dove, and heaped upon her a firm, white, marble-like tomb of heavenly new-fallen snow.

without re-entering it, they closed the door of steenie’s refuge, and leaving the two deserted houses side by side, made what slow haste they could, with anxious hearts, to their home. the snow was falling softly, for the wind was still asleep.